Godai
by kyrilu
Summary: An inevitable war is going to come, and each of them will have to fight their own battles.  It seems as if the elements themselves are against them.  But right now, they won't give in.  Not yet, not until that final day comes. 4 Gen Oneshots.
1. 火Fire

**Godai (****五大****)**

Summary: An inevitable war is going to come, and each of them will have to fight their own battles. It seems as if the elements themselves are against them. But right now, they won't give in. Not yet, not until that final day comes.

火Fire~Kaito 

He plays a dangerous game.

It wasn't enough playing with fire figuratively; it wasn't enough to stand teetering on the edge of a knife's blade. It wasn't enough to dodge and duck bullets, and to keep on running.

He was a performer, and like a circus entertainer, he taught himself to play with fire – literally.

Some mornings, he would slip away from home at the crack of dawn. He would slide out of his bed and out the window, tearing across the lawn and down the streets as if it was the world was about to end soon.

(If anything was going to end soon, it would more likely be his own world – his own life.)

He would dash past blocks, feet thudding rhythmically against the pavement, until he reached a dilapidated, abandoned dance studio. The door would always creak every time he shoved it open, rusty hinges squeaking. Every time he heard that little noise, he would jump. Paranoia was too far drilled into his body; fear was as regular as a daily meal. And he would grin to himself, reassuringly gazing at his own reflection in one of the many mirrors.

Routine, routine, routine – everyone had their own to follow, but his was one of the most unusual ones. The oddest by far, the strangest – not many could claim they risked their lives purposely almost every day.

He would first coat on a unique ointment on his skin, the slick layer shining in the dim morning light. With a strike of the match – _tch!_ – on one of the iron bars, the fire would arise, for yet another morning.

He would dance among the inferno he lit ablaze, each hissing fork flickering and illuminating in the dusty mirrors.

He'd been at this game for so long, it almost never hurts. Typically, he re-emerges, unscathed and unharmed. There are usually no burns any more, ripe scarlet red and throbbing. The conflagration would only tickle the hairs on his bare chest, barely singeing the fire-proof material of his suede pants.

For the most part, anyway.

Sometimes, the burns found a way to fester and blister, boiling hot, sizzling like a scorching pan. It hurts, but he tries to get used to it. Somehow, he'll still find a way to keep a straight face, to tend his wounds, and extinguish the fire.

But another day will come, and he'll light the fire again, allowing it to grow larger and larger, building itself hungrily and greedily. Perhaps it may injure him, perhaps it may not.

Wherever that fire is, he'll still grin, accepting the challenge, dodging the fiercest of heated assaults that comes his way, daring it, mocking it to come closer. Maybe one day a wall of flame might swallow him up, but for the time being, he leaps and bounds over whatever comes his way, brushing sparks away easily.

Even when he puts out the fire or steps away from it, an ember still remains.

At least, it feels that way.

It feels as if the fiery warmth still lingers on every inch of his skin, as if uncoiling ash clings on sooty, blackened fingertips.

He wonders if he'll be able to be rid of the two, eventually.

Because no matter how much he tries to drench and overflow his body with water, the filth never washes off, no matter how roughly he scrubs. And he knows that, but it doesn't stop him from trying.

But one day, the worst of it would be over, wouldn't it? Couldn't the endless barrage of raging blazes finally cease?

For now…

He closed his violet eyes, and allowed the almost-eternal flames to embrace his outstretched arms.


	2. Wind

Wind: Kaito.

His nimble fingers weaved through the paper's many layers. He ran his nail across the surface, creasing down each folds. He lightly ran a hand across the firm wings, insuring their strength.

From the outside, the paper airplane was white, pale white. White like the fine fibers of a dove's wing, white like the feathery clouds. The color of purity, happiness, and simple joy. That would be all an onlooker would see, watch, and observe.

But what they didn't know was that the inside sheets were a different color. One couldn't perceive the sheets, for they were well hidden, buried wrapped up among the many folds.

Black. The inner papers were jet black. Just…darkness. Darkness that nobody else could see or ever understand.

No, they weren't shadows. He sometimes wished that he could have shaded it in grey, or silver, at least. But it was too late to change it, for the color was already set in stone. No amount of scrubbing would lighten the heavy tint.

If he turned the airplane inside out, if he let the darkness flaunt its true nature, then everybody would know. They would hate the black, preferring the white. Preferring the illusion.

They would tell him that the airplane would never fly once more. They would tell him to lay those lying, lying wings to rest. They would tell him to stop. To let go.

But he knows that he'll never let go. He knows he'll always hang on until the end. It'll fly. He knows it.

And so he let the air plane ride the wind, knowing full well it would eventually fall to the earth.


End file.
